


Through the Secret Paths

by imma_redshirt



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: Sometimes, it's an alebrije’s duty to go above and beyond guiding and protecting their charge’s path to the afterlife. In some extreme cases--for example, when a vengeful spirit is on a mission of revenge against a living boy outside of the Land of the Dead--an alebrije has to break some rules that may very well get them in trouble.Good thing for Dante, when he breaks those rules, he doesn’t know about the “getting in trouble” part. And he wouldn’t care if he did.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, this was supposed to be a lighthearted one shot, but it grew and grew and now it's too long? Also darker than what I usually write? Which is a bit of a challenge for me, and not actually _that_ dark, but still. Also?? Writing from the POV of a dog is a lot harder than I thought it would be???? How.
> 
> Enjoy!

Chicken was amazing. Pork was amazing. _Beef_ was _incredible._ Shoes were pretty good, too. And bread! Dante loved bread. Dante loved anything he could get his teeth on, actually, and especially food that was handed to him by his family.

Sitting beneath an open window, tail whipping back and forth, Dante licked his chomps and stared fixedly at the wrinkled face looking out at him. 

Abuelita glared. Dante knew the human was making something with food in there. It smelled, and it smelled good, and the scent had lured him from Miguel’s side where the boy had been playing with the new baby under the tree. If he’d had ten eyes, at least eight would be trained on his boy and little Coco, and the other two would be left to watch Abuelita. As it was, he only had two that he knew of, and both were transfixed on the window. But he still had one ear alert and listening for the small humans behind him. All he needed was one “Dante!” and he’d go running. He’d even leave the prospect of food behind. Anything for his Boy.

Something inside the house clanked, like a spoon against a pot (Dante knew this sound, because many humans had banged pots and spoons and things together at him when he’d been looking for food in trash cans. They’d always seemed angry for some reason!)

“What do you want, perro?” Abuelita snapped, and Dante only completely understood the sound “want.” Want! Want was good!

He jumped up and settled his paws on the window sill. Now he could see more of his family, his _pack_ , in there. Miguel’s Mamá and Papá and Tía standing around a table with FOOD. Lots of food, good food, _raw_ food. Dante’s tongue lolled out. Food!

“Ah!” Abuelita waved a spoon at him, and he leaned back out of the way. He remembered her throwing things at him--baskets, hats, shoes that always stung just a little but smelled pretty good--but lately, she hadn’t thrown a single thing at him. He thought she liked him. Which was great! He’d always liked her and her food and how she was the best at protecting his Miguel. Even if she still growled at him sometimes. She even petted him now!

“Get down,” Abuelita snapped, and Dante understood “get down,” but she still hadn’t given him food yet? Food was there and none of it in his mouth?

Making a noise like an angry sigh (Dante didn’t sense any real anger behind it, though) Abuelita reached for something behind a pot on the stove. Food maybe?

Suddenly, a tiny shriek sounded behind him. Tongue whipping back into his mouth, ears tall and pointed, Dante twisted around. Miguel! Coco!

Coco shrieked again and laughed, and Miguel covered his eyes with one hand and uncovered them and said “Coco!” to more laughter. Both of Dante’s small humans were laughing now, the baby safe on Miguel’s lap, Miguel sitting back against the old tree. They were only playing. Both of his humans were safe.

Good! Tongue lolling out again, Dante turned back to Abuelita--

\--who was now holding out _food food food--_

“You’re a good dog,” Abuelita said, smiling now, and tossed the slab of juicy, cooked fajita into the air for Dante to twist around and catch in his mouth. 

_It was so good?_ How was all food so good? Dante didn’t understand, but he knew that it was, especially in his home, with his family. And Abuelita had said “good dog!” Content, and ecstatic at the same time, Dante laid on the ground, Miguel and Coco in clear view, and gnawed on the hot, chewy, _juicy_ meal. 

If you were to ask Dante if he missed his old life as a street dog, he wouldn’t know how to answer you. Not for lack of trying, though. He just wasn’t capable of speaking any human language whatsoever, and only understood a few simple human words like “sit” and “shake” and “get away from there” and “good boy” and so forth. He also wouldn’t completely understand the question. Old life? What old life? As far as he knew, he was living the same life he’d lived since he was a puppy, only now he could follow his Miguel around without Abuelita throwing things at him, and he had somewhere warm to sleep at night, and sometimes he had wings. 

He was an alebrije now. Pepita had told him it was an important job. Not all humans had them, but it was their job to protect them _all_ in the path to the afterlife, even those they weren’t attached to. They helped where they could, she’d said. 

Since becoming an alebrije, Dante had helped many people cross the pretty bridge to the Land of the Dead. Mothers and fathers, tías and tíos, abuelitas and abuelitos. Children who had laughed and laughed as he played with them in the piles of petals, who he’d let pet his fur and scratch his ears before being led away by a kind officer of the Department of Family Reunions. Dante had helped anyone he could when he wasn’t with Miguel. Even those who had no family to meet after the bridge. Sometimes he stayed with them for a bit. He knew what being alone felt like, and it was horrible. 

He did this, of course, when Miguel didn’t need him. When his boy was away at school, or playing at a concert, or visiting family out of town. But when Miguel was home, in his room or in the kitchen or the courtyard or running around Santa Cecilia, Dante was there with him. And he’d be there with him when it was his time to cross over. Not just because he was an alebrije, or a dog. Because he was family. He was pack. And that’s just what they did.

Also, Miguel was the best human ever, and Dante loved him with his whole heart, and he gave the best ear scratches out of all the humans Dante and ever known _ever._

And now the fajita was gone. Gosh, what a good day. Good food, warm sun, happy, safe family, and quite possibly more food on the way. Licking some crumbs off the ground, Dante stood, and planned on jumping on the window for more. But he was distracted by Mamá at the door, looking at her children.

“Miguel!” She said, and waved him over. “It’s time for Coco to eat, mijo.”

“Ok!” Miguel said. He stood and lifted Coco high up, and the baby giggled. “And here she comes, señoras y señores! The greatest musician in Mexican history, the talented _Coco Rivera!_ ”

Coco shrieked with laughter. Miguel laughed and cuddled her close before heading for his mother. 

“Oh, you’re getting big, Coco!” Miguel grunted, lifting the baby into his mother’s arms. “I think she’s big enough to hold a guitar now!”

“Maybe a little one,” Mamá chuckled. “Dinner’ll be ready in an hour. Wherever you go, make sure to be back by then.”

“Ok. C’mon, Dante! Wanna play some music in Mariachi Square?”

Dante was already by his boy’s side. He knew “C’mon Dante” and “music” and “Mariachi Square.” They were words Miguel said a lot. Before, when he said most of those words, the rest of the family reacted poorly. But now Mama smiled and scratched Dante’s ears before going back inside their home, and didn’t frown at Miguel even once.

And Miguel was happy. Dante could feel it. He’d always been a cheerful human, but ever since they’d returned from being trapped in the Land of the Dead, Miguel had just been that much happier. He didn’t have to hide anymore, and he could play music for people to dance and sing to. Dante knew it also had a lot to do with his family in the Land of the Dead, who Dante still visited from time to time with Pepita. 

\--------------------

Everything was just so _good._ Things had always been good, if a little hard, but now Miguel was happy, and everything was better. 

Sitting by the door, Dante chewed at a pulga on his haunch while Miguel jogged to his room for Héctor’s guitar. 

Being a dog, he’d always been able to sense _things._ When humans were happy. When they were sad or angry. And he could tell when a human was a good human--like the ones he loved, and the man made of bones that he’d tried to lead Miguel to in the Land of the Dead--and he could also tell when a human was not a _good_ human. He didn’t know how. He just felt it.

As an alebrije, the _feel_ was always stronger.

Like now, as he finally caught the awful pulga, when a horrible feeling twisted his gut.

His head shot up. His ears perked. He sniffed the air, and sat as still as possible.

Something was nearby.

He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. There was the building, and the tree, and the street outside the courtyard where his territory ended. All his humans were inside. 

He couldn’t see anything, but he could _feel_ something, and it was Not Safe.

“Let’s go, Dante!” Miguel said, suddenly running past him.

With a start, Dante ran after him. They left the courtyard, and ran down the cobblestone street, and the farther they got from home, the stronger the _feeling_ got. Whatever was out there, it was watching them, following, and Dante knew his Boy was in trouble.

\--------------------

Whatever the feeling was, it followed them to the center of town. As Miguel began to set up, a small group of people were already gathering. Lights had been strung up along the building tops. The bright light, and all the chatter from the crowd, and the sounds from the nearby market, and the few practice notes Miguel was strumming out--it was making it difficult for Dante to concentrate.

The bad feeling was stronger here. That much he knew. But where was it coming from?

He stood by Miguel’s side. The people gathering were mostly locals, and a few tourists, and they all knew that the boy with the shining, white guitar was Miguel Rivera, great-great-grandson of Héctor Rivera. They were all waiting to hear him play.

Dante watched every single person. He began to trot back and forth. The feeling was so strong, he couldn’t stand still. He needed to do _something,_ but he didn’t know _what_ to do to who!

He needed the rest of the family here. Papá and Mamá, and Abuelita, and anyone to protect Miguel.

He didn’t know what was out there, but as time passed, he’d felt the thing was out for the young human. All the energy, and _hate_ that Dante could feel, was focused on Miguel. 

“Dante?” 

Dante spared a glance at Miguel, who was looking at him, frowning. “You ok?”

No. No, whatever Miguel was asking, Dante knew the answer was no, But he didn’t have time to listen to his Boy. He had to be vigilant. He had to keep an eye out. If only Pepita was there!

Still frowning, Miguel began to play. The first musical note hit the air, and people began to cheer. A series of fast notes that rose and fell followed, but Miguel didn’t sing. He was watching Dante.

Usually when Miguel played his guitar, Dante felt happy. His heart beat fast, and his tail wagged faster than Miguel could play, and his tongue lolled out almost to the ground. He pranced around if the beat was catchy, and ran up to people for a nice pet or scratch behind the ear. But when the music started, Dante’s gut twisted, and he began to whine. The feeling was getting stronger. Something bad _wanted_ to happen.

The song finished on a trio of notes that had people cheering and applauding. Miguel smiled and waved. He hadn’t sung through the entire thing, but the fast pace of the tune had been enough. Dante didn’t care. He needed Miguel to get home.

With a loud whine, he jumped up and landed with his front paws on Miguel’s chest. Miguel stumbled back with a gasp.

“Whoa! Hey,” he said, still frowning, and grabbed Dante’s paws. Dante whined again. “What’s wrong, boy? What’s wrong?”

 _Home!_ Dante wanted to say. _Go home!_

He barked, and pushed, and whinned. He hadn’t felt this useless since Miguel had left Héctor in the Land of the Dead and yelled horrible things at Dante. Or when Miguel had been thrown from the high building, and no matter how Dante tried with his small wings, he couldn’t stop him from falling and falling. 

“Ok! Ok,” Miguel pushed gently until Dante dropped to the ground. With a grimace, he waved at the crowd. “Uh, sorry everyone! I need to go home. It’s getting late. Uh, thanks for listening!”

“One more!” Someone called, and another yelled “Àndale, Rivera! One more!”

“Sorry!” Miguel said, and slung his guitar onto his back. He ran his hand over Dante’s head and began to walk. “Let’s go, boy. C’mon. We’re going home.”

Home. Dante should have been relieved.

He wasn’t.

They pushed through the crowd. Dante walked in front of Miguel, so people parted quicker, and he gave a hard stare at anyone who tried to shake Miguel’s hand. They were leaving the square, but Dante didn’t feel any better. 

\--------------------

Night had just begun to set in. It was that odd time of day, where the sky held only few dredges of sunlight, and colors painted the clouds. It was the time of day where alebrijes found it easier to cross over, and especially Pepita, who dropped by to enjoy food and comfort from the living Riveras. 

It was this time of day, just before night had full reign over the land, that Dante usually crossed over to help spirits along the bridge. But not today. Today, he couldn’t leave Miguel. 

The streets were emptying. Merchants were packing up their items and covering their stalls, chatting with their last customers. Dante trotted right at Miguel’s side. He looked at every passing stranger, stared down every dark alley, eyed each dark window.

The feeling was still strong. Whatever had followed them from home was now following again. 

“Aw, no, more tourists,” Miguel groaned. Dante looked ahead. A group of humans with little cameras were standing in the middle of the street, cooing over an old fountain built into a building. 

“If they see me, they’re gonna want pictures,” Miguel said. He grimaced and looked down an alley. “C’mon, Dante, let’s go this way.”

 _No no no,_ Dante thought. He whinned. But tourists were apparently more daunting than a dark alley, because Miguel walked between the buildings without hesitation. 

Dante ran after him.

The rooftops were low, but they still blocked out what little light was left of the day. Miguel whistled, tapping out a beat on his hip, and Dante followed by his side. Ahead, the alley split left and right. Dante knew the way home was left, and automatically Miguel headed in that direction, oblivious to the sickening feeling twisting Dante’s gut.

When Miguel moved closer is when Dante saw it.

Saw _him._

“Hey!” Miguel gasped, and stepped back before Dante could trip him. “Dante! What’re you doing?”

Dante stood in Miguel’s path, pushing against his legs, and glared into the alley. He _growled._

Ahead, the pale vision of Ernesto de la Cruz sneered. He stood at the corner of a building, where the alley split, and watched them. The shadow was almost dark enough to hide him from Dante’s sight, and it had almost been too late. Couldn’t Miguel see him? Why hadn’t he stopped?

“What’s wrong? What is it?” Miguel’s voice trembled. He looked up, and stared with wide eyes into the two paths ahead. “Dante?”

De la Cruz took a step closer. 

Dante pushed Miguel back a step, teeth barred, and snarled.

“Ok,” Miguel said, stepping back on his own, now, one hand tugging at Dante’s colar. He stared ahead, eyes wide and seeing nothing but the dark. “Let’s go back. We’ll take the street. C’mon boy, let’s go--”

Miguel stumbled out of the alley, and Dante followed, eyes trained on the pale, pale figure following behind them. But even as they fell into the street, and were under the street lamps, Miguel still didn’t react to the bad human trailing after them. He gripped his guitar strap, walking backwards, still staring into the alley at something he couldn’t see.

Of course. Dante should have known! De la Cruz had come from the Land of the Dead. Had he snuck over the bridge? There was no possible way! Pepita had told him, though alebrijes could take secret paths between the two Lands, human spirits could only cross on Dia de Muertos. It was a long time from now, Dante knew. Then how had the man traveled to the Land of the Living?

“Oh my God!” Someone yelled, and Miguel jumped. Dante yelped.

“It’s Miguel Rivera!” Someone else said, and suddenly the tourists were there, surrounding them, asking Miguel strange questions. Whining, Dante was pushed and jostled away from his Boy. 

He found himself outside the circle of adult humans, staring right into the hard face of the human who had tried to murder his Miguel.

“You can see me, perrito?” Ernesto said, and Dante crouched low. With a snarl, the man leaned down. His shoulder passed through the leg of a tourist like a trail of smoke. “Then you should know, now, that I will not rest till I have my revenge. And there’s nothing to stop me.”

Whether it was the bad feeling, or some special insight that being an alebrije gave him, Dante knew exactly what Ernesto was saying. He knew what he intended. He was going to harm his Miguel!

Without warning, Dante lurched forward and _snapped._

He went through Ernesto like a twig through mist, and fell flat on the cobblestone. His jaw remained empty, rather than around the man’s neck, and he could hear strange laughter as he lay there, dazed. Shaking his head, he shot up, and whipped around, but the man was gone.

No no no, where was he? Where was Miguel? 

“Dante!” Miguel’s voice called out, and soon after, the boy slipped out from the crowd. He fended the tourists off with his guitar held in front of him, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry! I have to go! Umm, you can follow my parents on Facebook! We’ll be posting more info on Papá Héctor there later this week, uh, bye! Come on Dante!”

Miguel ran. Dante yelped and ran after him, leaving the chattering tourists behind. 

Ernesto was nowhere to be seen, but Dante could feel him.

\--------------------

They crossed under the archway of the courtyard, stepping off the street and onto home territory.

It was like moving from the shadow into sunlight on a winter day. The awful feeling was still there, but being on their own territory somehow made it feel _less,_ like a barely bearable chill under your fur. If Ernesto had followed, he hadn’t crossed into the courtyard.

Both dog and boy were panting, sweat beading the boy’s forehead, Dante’s tongue drooping out. Miguel had one hand on his chest, and the other gripping Dante’s back. Dante could feel the slightest tremble go through the boy’s hand. Had Miguel felt it, too? The bad feeling?

“That was a bad idea,” Miguel gasped, swiping at his forehead. “But we’re ok, now. RIght? Dante?”

Dante whimpered and looked up. Miguel rubbed a hand down Dante’s head, eyes wide and worried. 

“What did you see, Dante?”

If only the boy could speak Dog. Dante whined and dropped a paw on Miguel’s knee.

“Miguel!” Mamá said, standing at the door. Miguel whipped around, grinning.

“Hola, Mamá!”

“Were you running?” Mamá asked, eyeing him over. “You look pale. Did something happen?”

“Nothing,” Miguel said. He was still trying to catch his breath. He was having a harder time than usual. He patted Dante’s head and walked over to his mother, adjusting his red hoodie. “Just racing with Martin from the square.”

Mamá tsked and touched Miguel’s forehead. She frowned. “Mijo, you feel warm. Have you been feeling sick?”

“No,” Miguel insisted, and was led inside, out of Dante’s sight.

Dante whimpered. He glanced out at the archway. He could feel Ernesto nearby, the awful feeling raising the hairs along his spine. In their home, they were safe. But out in the town, Ernesto could find them.

And Dante could pass through him as if they were both _smoke._ How could he protect Miguel if he couldn’t bite the man?

He could do nothing here. Here, was only a dog. But in the Land of the Dead, he at least had wings, and the spirits there were not immune to his teeth.

And even if his alebrije form could do nothing, he at least knew a few people who could.

With a decisive snort, he trotted over to the tiny alley between the Rivera home and the building that served as their workshop. At the very end, a puddle of water glimmered.

Alebrijes had ways to travel to and from the Land of the Living. And if he tried hard enough, he could probably drag a human or two through with him.

Pausing to sip at the water, he licked his lips and dove through the opening beneath the puddle that Pepita had shown him. He felt the colors pop on his skin, and the wings unfurl from his back, and in a swirl of orange petals, he sped through to the Land of the Dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand four months later, an update! This is more of a filler chapter, and it's one of the few chapters that isn't from Dante's POV. I made a minor edit to the first chapter to fit the developing plot a little better: Ernesto now says he will not rest until he has his revenge against Miguel, rather than "until he is dead." 
> 
> I'm really sorry about the wait! But thank you to everyone for the comments and kudos!
> 
> Also, a HUGE thank you to imelda-and-hector-are-otp and eternaamantedehistorias over on Tumblr, who took the time to beta read this chapter and find all the mistakes I made--both typos and Spanish errors--and helped me fix everything up. Y'all are awesome!!

“Miguel, dinner’s ready!”

“Ok Abuelita, I’ll be right there!” Miguel called down the hall before slipping back into his room. He shut the door behind him, one hand holding his Mamá’s cell phone to his ear. He listened for footsteps outside the door, and when he didn’t hear any, began to whisper into the cell.

“Look, if my Mamá calls, just tell her we were racing from the plaza, ok?”

At the other end of the line, Martín Alvarado laughed. “ _Miguel Rivera is asking me to lie for him? Qué malo!”_

Miguel rolled his eyes. “Please? It’s just... I ran into some tourists, and if Mamá and Papá find out they were bothering me, they won’t let me go anywhere alone for a week! Again!”

“ _Don’t worry, I’ll tell my Mamá we were racing, and she’ll tell yours,_ ” Martín said, and Miguel breathed a sigh of relief. When Martín added “ _And I’ll tell her I won, too,_ ” Miguel snorted.

“Yeah right,” he said, moving to stand near his window. 

It was dark outside, save for the lights glowing softly in the courtyard, and Miguel could see the locked gate that he and Dante had ran through earlier that evening. Staring at the faint glow on the bars of the gate, Miguel was reminded of the odd chill he’d felt when Dante had stepped in front of him in the alley. And when Dante had growled, the fur sticking up on his back, pushing Miguel until he was out of the alley--it had been a long time since Miguel had been that frightened.

Miguel still didn’t know what Dante had been growling at, and even now, an hour later, he still couldn’t shake the horrible feeling in his chest. He’d been jumpy and nervous since Mamá had walked him into the house, and everyone was noticing. Mamá and Papá were starting to worry. He had to calm down before they started asking questions, questions he definitely couldn’t answer. But every time he looked out his window and at the gate, he could feel his heart racing.

Even though he hadn’t seen anything, _something_ had been there. He just knew it.

What was going on?

“ _You know I’m faster than you,_ ” Martín insisted.

Thankfully, his friend’s intense competitive streak was a good distraction. “You wish!”

“ _Just because you beat Gloria that one time with that weird run, you think--_ ”

“It’s not _weird,_ and I beat you too--”

At that moment, Miguel’s words died in his throat. He gasped. 

Ahead, through the bars of the gate, a flash of white caught his eye.

Ignoring Martín’s voice, Miguel leaned forward and squinted, pressing one hand flat against the window. Nothing was there now, but he swore he’d seen something there in the low light, like a face, or a mask--

“ _Hello? If you don’t answer me, I’m gonna tell your Mamá you fell asleep in class yesterday!_ ”

“Sorry, sorry!” Miguel said, still squinting through the glass.

He focused in on the last two bars of the right door. It had been quick, just a glimpse of a pale white _something_ through the bars, and if Miguel hadn’t been staring at that exact spot he would never have seen it. 

“ _What happened?_ ”

“Huh?”

“ _You stopped talking. You_ never _stop talking. What’s wrong?_ ”

“Cállate!” Miguel grouched, frowning, still eyeing the gate. “I thought… I thought I saw something. Outside, by the gate.”

“ _Like what?_ ”

Miguel wished he knew. “I don’t know! It looked white, but I couldn’t see anything else.”

“ _Like a ghost?_ ” Martín said, amused, and Miguel scowled. “ _Ooooi, Miguel, cuidado!_ ”

“I’m serious!” Miguel said, and leaned away from the window, because his breath was starting to fog it up. “There was something--”

“Miguel!” Came a shout from down the hall, and Miguel jumped. “Come and eat, mijo, your food’s getting cold!”

“Coming, Abuelita, sorry!” Miguel called back as his heart started racing again. He wiped quickly at the fog on the window with his sleeve and squinted again at the gate, but there was nothing. He bit his lip. He could have sworn there was something there, and he knew somehow that he’d seen it before. 

He took a calming breath. 

“I gotta go,” he said into the cell. 

“ _I know, I heard your Abuelita’s voice from here,_ ” Martín said, “ _See you on Monday, músico!_ ”

Miguel hung up without saying goodbye and took another, shuddering breath. That weird feeling was back, causing goosebumps to appear on his arms. What if whatever Dante had been growling at had followed them home?

With a shiver, Miguel drew the curtains. Whatever it was, it was out _there,_ and he was in his home with his family. And maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Dante had overreacted. It had been a long day, he was tired, and the light liked to play tricks on sleepy minds.

...still. He’d keep an eye out during dinner. If there was something out there, he’d see it before it harmed his family. He didn’t know why he imagined it wanted to hurt him or his family, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

Sticking the phone in his pocket, he opened the door and, before closing it, glanced back at the window one more time.

He must have imagined it. The flash of white with a tinge of pale silver. Because no matter what--or _who_ \--he thought it was, he couldn’t possibly be right. Día de los Muertos was months away.

With the awful feeling still like a clamp around his chest, he shut the door, and joined his family for dinner.

Outside, something brushed by the gate, and watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante will return next chapter. Thanks for reading!


End file.
